Dear reader, I am sure you have deduced by now that I am less than sexually active, so a regular bikini wax is necessary mostly for cleanliness and to wear a bathing suit. I found a waxer who I actually felt comfortable with, but then she moved away and became out of my reach. So my mother and I asked around, met some people, and got some information and eventually found a spa which we found worthy enough to hire staff to manhandle my cash and prizes. So before my vacation, I shaved my legs and headed to the spa for a good old fashion vagina wax (‘bikini wax’ is one of those terms used to take our minds of how frightening and weird it actually is). The morning before the big day, i made sure to wear my longest sweater, and ensure that any other parts of my body were hairless enough so I seemed as clean as possible.
So we head over to the spa. Dear spa directors: no amount of calming tea, fireplaces, or pretty statues will ever dampen the fact that in a few minutes, molten hot lava will be poured on my private parts and then ripped off along with some of my dna.
So I am introduced to my “personal service provider” and escorted into a tiny room filled with what looked like dental tools, and some bottles of lotion and oils. The said torture chamber was cold, and had a big window with translucent blinds. I guess my service provider (I am not referring to Bell Sympatico Internet, even though it sounds that way) could tell I was threatened by these ‘curtains’ so she assured me no one could see in from the back woods. Then she turned on a few things, cleaned some others, and then said “I will be right back, get yourself ready.” GET YOURSELF READY? WTF DOES THAT MEAN? Suddenly I had warped into an episode of Seinfeld. How do you get ready for a bikini wax? Do you swallow some pain killers? Inject your pelvis with novocaine? Should I take off my pants? Leave them on? Get naked? Lie down? I fumbled through my purse to find my cell phone to phone my mother for advice, but she was in the spa lounge talking to some friends and enjoying a pedicure.
I knew time was a factor so I unbuttoned my top button thinking that this way, when she came back it would look like I was mid-decision and about to get ready. But after 40 solid seconds of pretending to be actively undoing my fly I felt stupid. So I dropped my pants but then immediately felt nude and looked for something to cover up. I looked through every cabinet in the torture chamber until I found a face towel which I instantly wrapped around me. The service provider came back in to find me with my socks pulled up to my knees (as if this provided some coverage) and my sweater down past my waste, which was wrapped in a bleach stained face towel. I could tell she was holding back laughter as she told me to “lie down.” Then she asked me if I wanted some disposable underwear. I don’t know if she thought I was going to pee in my pants, or if she meant so I could avoid getting wax on my own underwear, but I politely declined figuring it was worth sacrificing my Victoria’s Secret panties to wax if it meant holding onto at least a tiny shred of comfort and dignity. So she waxed, and I screamed and flinched despite her asking me to hold still. I’d like to see her hold still as a stick of hot wax was coming toward her vajayjay. Then after she finished she asked me to “look and see if you like it.” Good Lord. Have you ever had to rate your own private parts? I have. As if her trimming me wasn’t humiliating enough, I now had to either be modest and suffer more waxing, or admit that I liked the look of my own poon in order to avoid more torture. I told her it was fab, zipped up, and got the hell out of there.
No comments:
Post a Comment